The Boy in the Bookstore

It was a wonder to see someone else getting lost in a book.

Photo by Hatice Yardım on Unsplash

The used bookstore had an air of perfume that couldn’t be found anywhere else. I wandered down the aisles, letting myself soak up the scents of paper and ink attached to the creased spines and battered covers.

It would have been wonderful to have someone to share it with, but I wasn’t that lucky, was I?

I took my time in different sections — from young adult to romance, graphic novels to science fiction and fantasy. The usual names jumped out, from Atwood to Gaiman to King, a kaleidoscope of the speculative playground of the past decades.

I thumbed through mass market paperbacks, some worse for wear than others, but then I looked up and saw you.

There was no rhyme or reason to the way you browsed the highest shelves. Your fingertips ran along a few spines, only to settle on a selection and pull it from the shelf. I tried not to stare, but I was curious in spite of myself. The aisle of SFF was usually empty when I was there, free to take my time with old friends and new acquaintances alike (of the book variety, of course).

I might have said something, but I didn’t like to bother people when they were on the hunt for a book. Even though you seemed to have no sense of purpose…